by Mary Balogh
Her upbringing, of course, had been largely to blame for it all. She had always been a dreamer, and despite their scolding and nagging, her parents had given in to her and allowed her to go her own way. They had certainly allowed her a great deal more freedom than Emmy or Melly had ever had, or than most other girls of her class had, she suspected. She had made a habit of being away from home for hours at a time, but they had never insisted that she take a groom or a chaperon with her. But she must not shift the blame to her parents; it would be unfair to do so. She knew that she had been a very difficult girl.
She had lived in a dream world. Because she could find little to satisfy her in the world where she actually lived, she had created her own, centered on the woods and the stream, and she had lived deeply in her imagination, losing herself in nature and books and in the creative process of painting, writing, and—at home—sewing and playing the pianoforte.
So it had happened that although she knew what was right and wrong, what was acceptable and unacceptable in her world, she had applied the standards of her own world in her relationship with William. He had seemed so much a part of that world, a man who liked solitude as she did, a man who liked reading and who seemed to understand her as no one else had ever done. It had been the most natural thing in the world to fall in love with him and to show that love in the ultimate physical way. She had known, of course, even at the time, that she was doing wrong, but she had known only with her head. With her heart, she had known that what she did was the only right thing to do.
Everyone had to grow up at some time in life, she supposed. It was just unfortunate for her that it had been such an abrupt and such a painful process. Finding William to be faithless and cruel had been the first step. It had jolted her out of her dream world. Acknowledging her own responsibility for what had happened had been the second. Discovering that she was with child had completed the process. Her thoughtlessness, her refusal to be realistic in her actions, had now involved an innocent person, who would suffer all his life from his illegitimacy. These weeks in London had served to make her realize that she herself had done very wrong. Now she knew that such behavior as hers was almost unheard of in a young girl, though older, married ladies often lived by an entirely different moral code. She was really very fortunate to have encountered someone as kind as the marchioness.
William. She was, she supposed, extremely foolish to have refused his offer of marriage. Perhaps her first refusal was understandable. It had happened only the morning after her meeting with him. She had been taken completely by surprise. But two days before, he had kissed her and asked if they might start again, if he might court her properly. His behavior had suggested that he really did wish to marry her, not just that he felt obliged to do so. Yet she had still rejected him. Marriage to him would be the answer to all her problems. She would be with the man she loved. Her child would have a name and a father. Both of them would have the security of a home.
But she could not do so. There was probably something quite ridiculous, she thought, about clinging to this little shred of pride when she had so completely degraded herself, but it was all she had to cling to. She could not trust him. And she would not marry a man whom she could not respect, even if she loved him ten times more than she loved William.
Helen relived that kiss. It had felt so very right to be there in his arms, her body leaning against his. She had felt for those few moments as if all the burdens of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. If only . . .
She opened her eyes to find Elizabeth looking across at her and smiling.
“We are on Hetherington land already,” she said. “We should be at the house in fifteen minutes or less. I shall be very happy to get down and have a good stretch.”
“This coach is very comfortable,” Helen said politely.
“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed. “Robert and I traveled all the way to Devonshire and back with it last year.” She bent her head over the sleeping child to hide a private smile.
* * *
“And she said nothing else?” Mainwaring prodded.
The Marquess of Hetherington shrugged his shoulders and lowered his head to avoid contact with an overhanging branch. As was their frequent custom, the two men were riding in the park before the crowds of the day made it a social pastime rather than an exercise.
“You have asked me the same question a dozen times,” he said. “Elizabeth merely said that the girl was unhappy and tired of London. Apparently she jumped at the invitation to spend some time at Hetherington.”
“But Elizabeth was not planning the journey,” his friend persisted. “You have both said continually since my arrival that you are here for the winter.”
“Elizabeth loves the country,” Hetherington said. “We both do, in fact. I am unable to leave at the moment. I have that big speech to deliver in the House the day after tomorrow, you know. I was quite delighted when she found a companion with whom to travel.”
Mainwaring rode on in silence for a few moments. “Did Elizabeth tell you that I love Nell?” he asked.
“Nell? Is that what you call Lady Helen?” said Hetherington. “Yes, she did mention it. I must confess I was surprised, William. She is so unlike the kind of woman I would have expected you to choose.”
Mainwaring reddened somewhat and forced a smile. “You mean she is very unlike Elizabeth?”
Hetherington laughed. “Well, she is, is she not?” he said.
“Yes, she is totally different,” he admitted. “But I do love her, Robert. I wish you could know her as I knew her in Yorkshire. You would not wonder at my feelings, I think. She has not shown to advantage here. City life and the social round do not suit her. And I fear that I hurt her last summer. I left her, you see, because I did not think I had a whole heart to offer her and I did not feel it fair to offer anything less.”
“Does she know this?” asked Hetherington.
“No,” Mainwaring said. “She refuses to listen to any explanation. She is convinced, you see, that I shall merely make an excuse. I can hardly blame her.”
Hetherington grinned suddenly and prodded his horse to a canter. “Females can be like that,” he said. “When it happened to me, I merely kidnapped Elizabeth. This is the first time she has got free of my clutches since.”
Mainwaring prodded his horse forward too until he drew level with his friend again. “She was your wife already,” he said. “But did you really, Robert? Anyway, it would not work with Nell. I have done her enough wrong already. I am not even sure that there is not something else weighing on her mind.”
“Oh?” said Hetherington. “Do you have any idea what?”
Mainwaring hesitated. “I had hoped that you might be able to enlighten me,” he said. “I thought perhaps she would have confided in Elizabeth.”
“Here we are back at the gates again,” Hetherington sighed, “and I am going to have to ride right through them. I am still far from satisfied with that speech. I shall have to spend the rest of the morning going over it yet again. Are you coming with me, William?”
“No,” his friend replied. “I am going to ride for a while. But I am inviting myself to Hetherington next week when you go. I have to make one more effort to see Nell and talk things out with her.”
“I am not sure you will be very welcome,” Hetherington warned. “Even Elizabeth might frown on your arrival if she has really taken a fancy to your little Nell and if she feels that the girl does not wish to see you.”
“You are forbidding me to come, then?”
“Me? A self-confessed kidnapper?” Hetherington said. “If you ask me, I would say that the girl is probably pining for you, William, my lad. And nothing can be gained with the ladies, I am convinced, if one listens to what they say they want.”
William Mainwaring smiled as he watched his friend ride out through the gates of Hyde Park and into the already busy traffic of the street beyond. Robert had given a lift to his spirits. If only he could be certain that the situation with
Nell could be so easily solved. But there had to be more to her strange, sullen behavior than unhappiness in the city and anger with him. If that had been all, surely the evening in the garden at Richmond would have solved all. She had responded to him there, he knew. For the space of maybe two minutes she had given herself into his hands again. She had held him and kissed him. She had wanted him.
Yet she had pulled away from him once more, and she had totally rejected his suggestion that they start all over again, forget the improprieties and the misunderstandings of the past. It had been a bitter quarrel. He could never remember feeling so angry with anyone as he had felt with her on that evening, and he knew certainly that he had never lost his temper with anyone before. He had never said things deliberately to hurt as he had done with her. He had succeeded more than he could possibly have hoped, even during the height of his anger. He was still appalled to remember her reaction. He had almost believed her when she had cried out that she would kill herself.
Yes, there was more to her strange mood. And had a terrible, sinking feeling that he knew what it was. He had made love to her on two separate occasions during the summer, to a girl as naive and inexperienced in such matters as he. It was a measure of his naivete that it had not once struck him either at the time or since that children were sometimes the result of such couplings.
Was Nell with child? The possibility hardly bore thinking about. He tried to imagine the terror she must have gone through if it were true—first the suspicion, then the gradually dying hope, and finally the certain knowledge. She would have to break the knowledge to her family, face the consequences somehow. And all alone! He had doomed her to face it all alone.
Although he still tried to convince himself that it could not be so, in his heart Mainwaring knew that it was. It was the only explanation that fit all the facts. How would a girl feel if she still nursed to herself such a secret? Surely she would be moody and sullen, given to bursts of temper. She would probably lose some of her physical bloom. She would start to put on weight even before the pregnancy showed in the most obvious place—perhaps on the face. And she would surely feel bitter anger and contempt against the man who had impregnated and then abandoned her.
Mainwaring was hardly even aware that he had spurred his horse to a gallop. Only the sight of a couple of maidservants walking ahead of him, one leading a massive dog by a lead, caused him to ease back on the reins and resume the brisk canter that was safer in the park.
The only fact that had seemed at first not to fit the theory was her refusal to accept his proposal. Surely if she were carrying his child, she would accept with relief the chance to marry him. But he could no longer comfort himself with this thought. Nell was not like other girls. She did not always take a practical attitude to life, he knew. He did not believe that she would have given in so easily to his wooing if she had. She had had very little to gain really from their liaison. It must have been only love that had prompted her to give everything.
Given that attitude, and given her very righteous anger against him for abandoning her without a word, it was not really surprising that she had refused to take the easy road out of her difficulties and accept his offer. In fact, it was very much in character that she would refuse. Poor, dear, stubborn Nell! How could he ever have doubted that he loved her? He had been thoroughly enchanted by her from the moment when he first saw her propped in such an unconventional attitude on the bank of the stream and she had turned to him and told him that she was learning water. If he had not fallen in love with her then, it must have happened very soon afterward.
If only he had realized it at the time! They might have been safely married by now and no one would ever be certain whether the child—if there really were a child—had been conceived before or after the nuptials. But he had been caught up in his long period of mourning for the loss of Elizabeth. He was not belittling that emotion now. He truly had loved her, he believed. But he might have recovered sooner. His grief had been thoroughly self-indulgent. He had known that Elizabeth really belonged with Robert. He had liked the picture of himself as the lovelorn, rejected lover, he supposed. Had he not been so caught up in this romantic image of himself, he surely would have known the obvious before it was too late. He had always loved Nell, no matter who she was.
Was it too late now? He had no doubt that his little wood nymph was in reality a tough-minded female who would not be easily persuaded. She would not be easily governed even if she did finally consent to be his wife. Her parents seemed to have little control over her. But he must try. Even if there were no child, he must try. He could not leave her alone, knowing that he was to some extent responsible for her misery. And if there were a child, then she must be persuaded to marry him. He could not possibly allow her to face all the ignominy of bearing an illegitimate child alone. Anyway, it was his child she would bear. His child and Nell’s. She had to listen. Even if he had to kidnap her as Robert had done Elizabeth.
Mainwaring grinned suddenly and quite unexpectedly. Only Robert Denning would conceive of doing such a thing. To Elizabeth of all people. She was such a beautiful, dignified, independent woman—or at least she had been that way when he had known her. Most people loved her and respected her, but most also stood somewhat in awe of her. Yet Robert had had the audacity to kidnap her. How Mainwaring would have liked to witness her reaction! That whole story, in fact, would be fascinating to hear.
What had Nell told Elizabeth? he wondered. Elizabeth, of course, and Robert were like a shield when he had questioned them. He could draw nothing from either, except what Hetherington had repeated earlier. But surely there must have been more. Elizabeth had had no intention of going into the country, despite what Robert had said, and there was certainly no reason why she would have chosen Nell for a companion if she had. Nell had not treated his friends with much courtesy. Again the evidence pointed all in one direction. Elizabeth was the sort of person who would turn all her plans upside down and overlook all personal feelings if she felt she could help a fellow creature in trouble.
Well, he would go with Robert the following week, even though he did risk at best a very cool welcome from the two women. It was a temptation to go immediately, in fact, but he thought it best to curb the urge. Nell had been very upset. He should give her a few days alone in the country with the soothing company of Elizabeth before renewing his campaign.
Yes, she had been upset. And what had caused her finally to break? His cruel—and quite untrue—declaration that he would not want a woman like her to be the mother of his children!
CHAPTER 15
Elizabeth found after a couple of days at Hetherington Manor that she was pleasantly surprised by Helen. She had felt great compassion for the girl earlier, so much so, in fact, that she had inconvenienced herself and her husband a great deal in order to help her. And of course she had been willing to give the girl a chance for William’s sake, though it puzzled her to understand what he could see to love in her. But she had not really expected to like Helen. She was willing to concede that the sullenness and the rudeness that had so set her against the girl at first were easily explained now that she knew the truth. But still, she expected to find her guest humorless and not overly intelligent or interesting. She had been wondering how she would entertain her.
Yet the first thing that had happened when they entered the house was indicative of what was to happen for the coming days. In the large hallway of Hetherington Manor, displayed on the wall facing the main door was a painting by Joseph Turner. It was Robert’s pride and joy, a picture of sunset on a turbulent ocean. Most visitors commented on it. There was nothing unusual, then, in Helen’s stopping to do so. But the intensity of her reaction was unusual.
She had dropped the one hatbox that she carried, just inside the door, without even noticing that a footman stood with hand outstretched to take it. She had not stopped to remove her heavy cloak and bonnet as Elizabeth had done. She had walked forward, almost like a sleepwalker, her lips parted.
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“Oh!” was all she had said at first.
Elizabeth had smiled and joined the girl after handing her things to the footman. The nurse, who had been traveling in the baggage coach behind them, had already taken the baby upstairs to the warmth of the nursery.
“Do you like it?” she had asked.
Helen had not immediately replied. “Who did it?” she had asked at last without withdrawing her eyes from the painting.
“Mr. Turner,” Elizabeth had said. “Have you seen any of his other paintings?”
“Oh, no,” Helen had replied. “There are more? How I envy him!”
Elizabeth had laughed. “Do you paint?” she asked.
“I thought I did,” Helen had said, “but I see now that I only dabble. Oh, I have tried and tried to be like this. But everything is of the surface. I cannot get beneath the surface to the real life. This man has done so. Look! He has become part of that sunset. He has been into it and into that ocean. He has painted it from the inside out. Oh, how envious I am.”
Elizabeth had looked at the girl, startled. “You take painting seriously, I see,” she had said.
“Oh, I did,” the girl had replied. “But I can never be this good. What a failure I am.”
“And what a foolish thing to say,” said Elizabeth. “If you love painting, Helen, and if you have an earnest desire to reach perfection, then you are a failure only if you give up. That would mean that you do not have the courage to try.”
Helen had seemed to be aware of her presence for the first time. She had given her hostess a look of bright interest. “Of course you are right,” she had said. “Self-pity has become such a habit with me lately that I am afraid I have become overindulgent. You do understand too, do you not? My family has always ridiculed my paintings. Papa says they look more as if I had attacked the paper than painted on it.” She had laughed suddenly. “Perhaps you will agree with them if you ever see any of my work.”